


'Friday in the Park with Stephen'

by BeautifullyObsessed



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Stephen Strange - Fandom, Strangebatch - Fandom
Genre: Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder, Butterflies, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fun & Fluff, Magic, NYC in springtime, New York City, New York Sanctum, Pre-Infinity War, and in one's stomach due to sweet flirtation, on the wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-02-25 22:45:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18711205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: Stephen Strange has a rare afternoon to himself, on a beautiful spring day in NYC. He plans to spend it relaxing at a local park, and catching up on his reading–-until a surprising a gift from Mother Nature provides him with other plans.Inspired by a GORGEOUS photo manip of Stephen by b-editions on tumblr...in which Stephen (like Benedict) devastates in a white dress shirt.💙





	1. Chapter 1

Stephen was resolved not to let this picture perfect, spring afternoon go to waste—they were far too rare a phenomenon in New York City to allow for such a travesty. Disappointed as he was, he would make the most of the unadulterated sunshine, warm, dry temps, and unexpected block of free time, even if he had to spend it alone.

Christine had readily agreed to meet him for lunch at a favorite little café in Soho; it wasn’t meant to be a date, just two old friends catching up after months of quiet between them.  Friends, and nothing more.  Stephen was glad to just touch base with her from time to time, while cautiously exploring the new parameters of their relationship.  He knew he was lucky to be even a small part of her life, and he had no plan to try and change the balance between them--though a part of his heart would be forever hers, no matter how far each moved on.

In fact, he was aware that Christine was dating again, though she wouldn’t share—nor would he ask—how serious it was. He was satisfied to just accept it, while realizing she was his very last tie to his old life—one that he would never want to give up, but also one that could never go back to the way it had been before. He was a different man now—a better man, even Christine had acknowledged that—but that ship had clearly sailed for good.  Besides, his life now was too full of new and weighty responsibilities and everything he had to learn (there was _always_ more, no matter what he mastered; so much more) and he was exploring the universe in ways he never could have dreamed in that former life. And he was doing the sort of good that far outweighed anything he’d accomplished as a surgeon.  Making his a pretty fulfilling life, by anyone’s standards.

They had barely been seated at a patio table, when Christine had gotten an urgent call from Metropolitan General Hospital.  There were several men injured in a construction accident, enroute to her ER--and it would be all hands on deck to handle the incoming.  She’d apologized to him profusely, as he watched her slip from his casual Christine into Doctor Palmer, Chief of Emergency Medicine, envying her just a little for the rush of adrenaline he knew had hit her system as she prepared to meet the challenge awaiting her.  With a quick peck on his cheek, and the promise of a raincheck as soon as their schedules allowed it, she was sprinting off to catch the nearest cab uptown.

Dragging his feet a bit—for he didn’t want to give up his well-earned bit of downtime—Stephen returned to Bleecker Street.  It was quiet there, everything running as smoothly as usual, and he soon realized that barring any sudden emergency, his free time was still his.  He didn’t even stop to dress down; he grabbed a small knapsack, filled it with some books he had been meaning to delve into, along with a couple of frosty bottles of water, and headed over to Washington Square Park.

One there, he found himself a quiet spot in the shade of a Silver Maple tree, tucked his sunglasses into the crook of his shirt, and settled in for a relaxed afternoon of reading.

* * *

“Please. Don’t move.”  The voice was soft, though close enough to get his attention.  Stephen looked up at its source, to find a woman standing over him, holding up her cellphone as though to take photo of him.  She laid her index finger against her lips, prompting him to silence.  “I just want to get a picture,” she told him, _sotto voce_.

He quirked a brow and was about to ask—quietly, to match her tone—just why she wanted a picture of _him_.  She widened her eyes and pointed at his right shoulder, mouthing the words again. _Don’t move_.

Stephen shifted his eyes enough to catch a glimpse of what she was pointing at.  A brilliantly blue butterfly had alighted on his shoulder, its color made even more vibrant against the pure white of his cotton shirt.  He nodded nearly imperceptibly, and her cell emitted three shutter clicks, one for each picture that she snapped.  The woman beamed him a smile, flashed him a thumbs up, and tucked her cell into the pocket of her faded capri jeans.    “Thanks!”

“Don’t mention it,” he murmured, surprised as she suddenly crouched next to him.  Close to, he noted that a thick fringe of dark lashes shaded her mirthful eyes and that her face was pleasantly dusted with smatterings of pale freckles.  She struck him as quite friendly, open, and kind.

She bit her lower lip, all her focus on the little creature nested on his shoulder.  “Oh, he’s a beauty,” she whispered, “I’ve never been this close to one before.”

“A butterfly?” he whispered back, charmed by her distraction.

“No,” she laughed softly, turning her full attention his way, “Don’t be silly.  _This_ is a Blue Morpho.”

Astounded that the ‘Morpho’ hadn’t already flickered away, Stephen teased her in mock seriousness, “Right…I don’t know _what_ I was thinking…”

“It must sense a sort of calm in you,” she pondered.

“Possibly,” he grinned, setting the text he’d been reading on the ground between his legs, “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”  Stephen already knew the butterfly had likely been drawn to him by the residual energy of magic in his aura. He brought his left hand up to his right shoulder, offering his finger as a perch, and with little urging, the Morpho moved onto it.  Slowly, gingerly, he glided his hand to hover at the woman’s eye level, pleased at her delighted, drawn out ‘ _whooooooooa_ ’.

“What are you,” she laughed quietly, “Some sort of butterfly whisperer?”

“Not _quite_ that, Miss…”

Still wide-eyed at his feat, she answered absently, “Collins…I’m Hope.  Hope Collins…”

“Stephen Strange,” he replied warmly, feeling his smile fill his entire face, “Good to meet you, Hope.”

She finally met him eye to eye, “Likewise…Stephen.”  She had lingered over his name a bit, sending a little frisson of delight to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.  He liked her; her lack of artifice, her cordial warmth; the clarity of her eyes, whose blue seemed to match the tint of the butterfly’s wings.  “Got any other tricks you’d like to share?”  Her question came across as half flirtation, half a dare.  He liked that as well.

“Well now, let me see what I can manage.”  Stephen brought his hand close to his face, trying to restrain the cheeky grin that waited to break forth.  His lips formed a small ‘o’ and he gave the barest, most careful puff of air towards the butterfly, silently reciting the perfect charm for what he had in mind.  The insect batted it’s wings a bit, then lifted off and fluttered in a circle several times above Hope’s head—and landed gracefully on the thick, auburn braid draped across her shoulder.  “I think he likes you too.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she flitted her eyes between him and the butterfly before softly exclaiming, “Get out!”  Stephen shrugged, pleased with her response to his very minor bit of magic.  “No…seriously, dude,” she went on, looking an adorable combination of amused and flummoxed, “How did you do that?”

He shook his head, assuming an air of prudence, “A good magician _never_ reveals his secrets.”

“Riiiiight,” Hope smirked, raising her chin, then let out a long, slow breath as she finally took his measure.  “Misterrrrr…,” she paused, considering him closely, studying his face and—as though finding something that _she_ liked--gasped softly, “Mister Remarkable…”

An expectant silence flourished between them, a current of attraction that held each in place.  “At your service,” he countered at last, enjoying her surprising breathlessness.  _This is nice_ , Stephen was thinking, _and it’s been way too long since a woman_ _looked at me this way_ …until she shifted her attention back to the butterfly.

Shaking off that moment of whimsy, he held out his right hand, waggling his fingers to her. “Your cell, Hope—let me take your picture.”

She gave a little gasp again, “Of course…right…”  Careful not to disturb the Morpho—who, except for occasionally flapping its wings, seemed content enough for the moment to remain in place--she eased her phone from her pocket, unlocked it and handed it over to Stephen.  “No one would’ve believed this otherwise,” she chuckled.

Stephen snapped several shots, and then passed the cell phone back to her, “I barely believe it myself.” 

Hope narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed against an indulgent smile, “Somehow, I doubt that…Mister Remarkable.”

* * *

The Blue Morpho exited the scene soon enough, but Hope was not so swift to leave.  “So—mind if I share your tree?” she asked, depositing her backpack onto the grass beside her and pulling out a sketch pad and a small pencil case—clearly signaling his answer should be ‘not at all’.  Stephen wouldn’t have declined anyway—she seemed the promise of the pleasantest sort of company.  “It’s got a great view—lots of stuff for inspiration.”

“Please do,” he told her, gesturing to a spot beside him, then dared adding, “You’ll only improve the view.”   

“Hmmmmm…silver-tongued as well.”  She batted her eyes, and settled next to him, leaving a respectable space between them, and leaned back against the tree trunk. “Remarkable,” she t’sked, then flipped open her sketchpad and set to serious work.

Stephen took time to watch her a bit, subtly observing her details.  This close, he guessed she was somewhere around thirty; a vibrant, healthy, youthful thirty.  She was focused intently on whatever she was sketching, and shortly she retrieved a tool from the small case to sharpen the edge of the charcoal pencil she was using.  Once done, she set her supplies down long enough to shrug off her lightweight cardigan and tuck it into her bag (a very retro looking backpack, bearing a weathered patch that read ‘ _Make Art, not War’_ ), revealing a gauzy, sleeveless blouse in pale pastel watercolors—and shoulders generously freckled in a shade darker than those speckling the bridge of her nose, forehead and along her cheekbones.  _Pretty as a picture herself_ , he concluded.

She bit her lower lip in concentration, as her charcoal danced across the paper—yet she was aware his eyes were on her, for as she applied shading to one small section, she asked him nonchalantly, “How’s that reading going?”

He had to laugh, despite himself, turning back to the text in his hands (while wishing he could catch a glimpse of her drawing), and leaning back against the tree himself, “Remarkably.”

Hope giggled softly, not breaking a moment from her work, and murmured, “Good one…”

Stephen read on, but his mind was not entirely on the pages in front of him.  He snuck the occasional peek her way--and found her occasionally watching him as well, making him wonder which of them would be the first to break.

Turned out to be Hope, who eventually sighed hard, “Yup…that should just about do it.”  She sidled nearer and nudged him, “Sooooooo…maybe tell me what you think?”  She held her open sketchbook out to him, for the sweetest surprise thus far.

He was speechless as he took in the portrait of himself in profile.  In his judgement, her rendition was very kind; the little imperfections that he normally saw in the mirror seemed only to contribute to the handsome image.  She’d taken extra care to get his hair just right; the curl above his brow, the white (in chalk) at his temples, even the precise lines of his beard, captured perfectly.  Stephen gave a low whistle, “I’m flattered, Hope…really, really flattered.”  He turned to her and saw how deeply invested she seemed in his approval.  “Honestly, this is fantastic.”

Though she was pleased, Hope tried to downplay his compliments, “Thanks.  But really—no flattery intended; I just draw ‘em as I see ‘em.”

“You’ve got some real skill…” he insisted.

She shrugged, “Most of the time it depends on the subject matter…inspiration is usually the key…”

Though he was willing to bet she was being far too modest, he let the topic slide.  “Still, I’m honored to be…” Stephen paused, in search of the perfect word, “…immortalized…in this way.”

That evoked a pretty, guileless smile, before she flipped the page and turned back to her work.

* * *

They sat for a while in companionable silence, each focused on their chosen diversion, until curiosity got the best of Stephen.  He found that he wanted to know more, and decided he’d waited long enough.

Recalling his lifelong dream of being a surgeon, he started by asking her if she’d always wanted to be an artist.

“Since I was about 11,” she told him, “I had this amazing art teacher in 5th grade, and she…well, she tapped into my potential.  We had a district wide art show, and a drawing I’d done of my mother and grandmother in my nan’s garden, won the blue ribbon.”  Her eyes went soft at the memory.  “After that, there was no stopping me.”

“I get that.  It was sort of the same for me,” he admitted.

“Really? What is it that you do?”

Stephen hesitated before replying; his medical days were done, and he obviously couldn’t give her the actual truth—so he managed a half version instead.  “I…um…I teach…”

Genuinely interested, she followed up, “And why do you sound so uncertain about it?” 

“It a very esoteric subject,” he told her, “One which you would probably find…very…boring.”

“I doubt that,” she said, almost to herself, allowing him to change the subject, nonetheless.

Hope remained free and forthcoming as he asked about her education and experiences in her field—perhaps thinking he might, in turn, be equally revealing.  “I teach art classes for K-8 at several rec centers across the city.  In fact, I wanted those pictures of the Blue Morpho for a project I’m doing with my 6th graders.”  She had moved closer over the course of their conversation, and now leaned a littler nearer, confidentially, “They are so going to _love_ seeing it in those contexts.”  She also told him she was a part-time student at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, working towards her MA in Art Therapy.  “I’ll still be working with kids, once I get my Masters.  All age groups, right through late adolescence.  In the meantime, I make a little extra cash doing the odd commission.”

Stephen was impressed again, with her enthusiasm and commitment to her work—and charmed with her vivacious, open manner.  Hope had an easy, generous laugh (ever a weakness for him) and as the afternoon passed, he caught himself watching her lips, wondering about the flavor of her lip gloss, and how her mouth might taste and feel finally pressed against his own.  Thoughts he hadn’t entertained since before the night his life had changed forever; since he’d lost the world, only to gain that and so much more back again.

The sun had tracked its way across the sky and was now in decline.  She shivered a little as the air had cooled, and so put her cardigan back on.  “I suppose I’ve talked your ear off, Stephen.  You’ve _got_ be ready to call it a day.”  He sensed she was fishing a bit, allowing him the opportunity to ask for more time in her company. 

Frankly, how could he _not_ oblige?

“Not so much,” he said lightly, “I’ve got nothing special planned for the evening—it’s actually my first time off in a really long time.”  Her blue eyes had gone wide once again, tracking his for some indication of his intent.  “I was thinking I’d grab some Thai takeout and head home…”

“Oh.”  Just two letters, but filled with enough disappointment that Stephen couldn’t let Hope wait for long.

“…but now I’m thinking,” he nodded, feeling his smile about to break again, “Thai for two might be even more satisfying.”  Stephen grabbed his bag, cinched it tight and stood up, dusting off the seat of his pants, before offering Hope his hand, “You game?”

Her grip was light—likely because she had noted the harsh network of his scars—but her touch was warm, and familiar in a way he never would have expected.  “God, yes…I’m famished.”

“Good.  It’s kind of a brisk walk to the place I have in mind.”  She nodded, and Stephen watched as she shouldered her bag, then offered her his arm for the journey.  She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, showing nary a sign of self-consciousness at the close physical contact.

 _I like her_ , he thought as they passed through the stone archway that marked the south entrance to the park.  _I like her very…very…much_.


	2. Chapter 2

They chatted as they walked, discussing ordinary things, feeling each other out for those initial signs of compatibility.  The trip took them downtown to Bleecker Street, enroute to West Houston Street and their dinner destination.  Stephen had subtly managed to have them tread the sidewalk opposite the Sanctum, rather than the sidewalk bordering it—and was very surprised when Hope slowed their pace, and then stopped directly across from the double doors of his home and refuge.

“I’ve always loved this old building,” she sighed, “It’s got a dignity--a sort of stateliness—that’s very…reassuring; like it’s stood the test of time.  Like it could weather any storm.”  She pointed towards the Sanctum window.  “That oculus alone is…spectacular…while the beautiful green patina of the copper roofing gives it amazing character,” she enthused, “And it incorporates several architectural styles seamlessly—Art Deco, Bauhaus, Regency.  It’s a true marvel, even in a city of marvelous buildings.”  Hope gave a low whistle, adding, “I’ll bet it’s got some gorgeous architectural details inside, too”       

Despite the thrill of delight he felt learning that Hope had the artistic vision—and perhaps even a touch enough of the Sight—to recognize the beauty and other-worldly purpose infused in the bricks and mortar of his mystical domain, Stephen tempered his reply carefully.  “Yeah…it _is_ something, alright.”  And then, trusting his instinct, he revealed, “And, uh…well…I actually work here…”

Her mouth dropped open and she blinked several times, “Seriously?  This… _this_ building is a school?”

“Ahhh…among other things,” he admitted.

“Stephen, I’d _love_ to take a peek inside sometime,” she exclaimed, “Maybe bring my sketch pad along.  Is it open to the public?”

“Rarely, Hope.  The nature of the work we do here…it, uh…it precludes…interaction with the general public.”

“Well now I’m _really_ intrigued.”  She looked equal to any challenge he might muster, but chose a softer route, batting her lashes prettily, “So…how about a private tour?  I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

Stephen sighed hard--finding her charm persuasive--yet unable to acquiesce, “Let’s say we skip the tour for the time being?  It can be a real maze inside…and I can think of much better ways to spend our time together.”

“Hmmmm.”  Hope raised her chin pertly, “Alright—for now.  But don’t think I won’t ask you again…sooner than later.”

He chuckled and patted her hand in the crook of his arm, “Of that, Ms. Collins, I have no doubt.”

* * *

He’d suggested ‘Thai for two’, and that’s exactly what they got.  _Som Tum_ and _Gaeng Daeng_ , _Yam Nua_ and _Pad Thai with Shrimp_ , all while talking—and laughing--about the challenges and quirks that came with living in the most urbane city in America, and sharing from each other’s plates as though they were old, bosom friends.  Stephen indulged in a couple bottles of Thai beer, while Hope called it quits after one very strong cocktail made of bourbon, citrus, and ginger beer.  The alcohol made her giggly, and Stephen enjoyed _that_ immensely. It had been ages since he’d felt this relaxed, and he realized the key to this feeling was the company he was keeping.

They decided to share dessert, as Hope insisted she could barely take another bite—but the coconut ice cream, garnished with mango, chopped peanuts, and honey, enticed her enough to take a few mouthfuls, before she surrendered and laid her spoon down, daintily dabbing her mouth with her napkin.

As light and easy as their conversation had been, Stephen noticed that her eyes had strayed to his hands at least a half dozen times during their meal.  He knew that was natural; that it was, in fact, inevitable—in the two years since his accident, he had come to accept there would always be stares, and so often questions, and it rarely bothered him anymore.  But he’d also seen the hesitation in her eyes a time or two, as though she had wanted to ask about them and then thought better of it.  So he was relieved when she finally did, as they waited for the check.  Relieved—and ultimately—very surprised.

“Stephen?” she asked, with an air of uncertainty, her clear blue eyes telegraphing the topic she was broaching.

 _Ah, at last…here it comes_ , he thought, satisfied to get this part over with.  But contrary to his expectations, she didn’t ask how it happened, as people bold enough to inquire always did.  Instead, she asked about the ever-present trembling and the pain he must endure.

She asked quietly, solicitously, and very mindful of his feelings—nodding sympathetically as he downplayed the severity of both, while making him realize that she was very suited to the profession she was working towards.  Hope then followed up with the most surprising question of all.  “I wonder if…,” again she hesitated a breath, then forged ahead, “...if you might allow me to…draw them…sometime?”

Truly surprised, Stephen looked perplexed, “Why would you want to do that?”

Hope smiled patiently, offering an unexpected explanation.  “Because there’s beauty to them, Stephen…”

“Beauty…,” he repeated, incredulous.

“Yes.  Absolutely.”  She crept her right hand closer to his, where it rested on the table, as though she wanted to touch it, and was waiting for his permission.  “I know you probably don’t see it.  Maybe…maybe you only see what you’ve lost…or what you’ve suffered.  But _I_ see,” she sighed and bowed her head, before facing him again, “ _I_ see resilience…and…and purpose.  Dare I say, the strength of the human spirit.”  Then she did dare touching him, brushing her fingertips along the back of his fingers, “And you’ve got _amazing_ hands, Stephen.  They put me in mind of Michelangelo’s sculptures…and Bernini’s…”  Her eyes were moist—which touched his heart--and she gave a little shrug and a small, sheepish smile, sweet in its sincerity, “What kind of artist would I be if I _didn’t_ want to capture that beauty, however I might?”

Stephen bowed his head, nearly overcome, made uncharacteristically soft by her genuine compassion.  How could he answer such an honest, gentle request?  For most of his life he had thought of his hands as his greatest tools, a gift second only to the gift of his mind, and he had been very aware of their physical beauty.  But now?  Now they were a daily reminder of nearly 40 years of foolishness and misplaced pride, and of all the chances he had missed to better the lot of his fellow man instead of pursuing egotistical satisfaction.  The almost constant tremors, the ugly scarring and the accompanying pain, were anything but beautiful.

But she was looking at him so expectantly, so earnestly, that he could only scoff quietly, before asking her if she’d had her eyes examined recently.

“They’re 20-20, Stephen.  And as I told you earlier,” she reminded him, “I always draw ‘em as I see ‘em.”

“Scars and all?” he asked, already pretty convinced.

“Yes…oh yes.  Scars and all.  And maybe,” she added with growing conviction, “Maybe I could prove to you how really beautiful your hands are.”

* * *

Hope had wanted to pay her share of the check, but Stephen wouldn’t allow it; she had sighed in resignation at his insistence, and then laid a generous tip upon the table, daring him with a smile and a flash of determination in her eyes, to deny her that small bit.

Dusk greeted them when they hit the sidewalk outside the restaurant, but the air remained temperate; a perfect spring afternoon had transitioned to perfect spring evening.  “So—where to next?” he asked, loathe to leave her company just yet.

“Ahhhh, well—I should probably head back home.”  She seemed equally regretful, perhaps waiting on him to suggest something otherwise.

“I _could_ walk you home…” he started, disappointed at once to see Hope shake her head ‘no’.  He replied with a bit of a pout, playacting he was wounded by her denial, “Oh, damn! Was it something I said?”

Hope smacked his arm lightly, casting him a sidelong and flirtatious look of appraisal.  “Not at all.  It’s just way too far to walk,” she explained, and then in answer to his raised brow, she told him, “Brooklyn Heights.”

Playing the dejected suitor, Stephen stuck his hands into his pockets, sighing hard and then muttering, “And so she shot me down…”

“That is the farthest thing from my mind right now,” she told him saucily, so that he grinned and offered her his elbow again.  Hope took it gladly, “You can walk me to the subway station though—and we can…uh…take our time along the way.”  Her eyes gleamed with mirth in the fading light; mirth, and what Stephen felt sure was invitation.

“Or…” he offered, not quite ready to give up.

“Or…” she repeated, catching his drift, “Or we _could_ …”

“…we _certainly_ could…”

“…walk the High Line!” they finished together, chuckling at their own cleverness.

“But then you’d be stuck on my side of the bridge,” Hope reminded him, in mock innocence.

Stephen grinned, sure that was exactly her aim.  “I’ll just catch a cab back, once I’ve dropped you off home.”

“Brilliant idea. Dunno why I didn’t think of that myself.”  Her happiness felt contagious.

“The High Line it is, then,” he agreed, inclining his head closer to hers--enough to catch the scent of her hair, and to linger on the spray of fine freckles that graced the bridge of her nose.  Enough to notice she seemed a little breathless in consideration of him, and that her lips held a ripeness that begged some dedicated exploration.  _Just a two mile walk_ , he told himself, _but if we dawdle enough on the way, I just might get the chance to see how those lovely blue eyes look by_ _starlight_.


	3. Chapter 3

Dusk had gradually given way to velvet darkness as they walked through High Line Park on their way to the Brooklyn Bridge, then across the East River to Hope’s building on Hoyt Street.  They had talked art (her area of expertise) and modern music (his) and a dozen other topics while the hours and the miles passed.  Like Stephen, Hope was not a native New Yorker, but she had taken the city to heart, and had done her best to grab the unique opportunities it offered to build the life she wanted.

Their evening ended at the Art Deco-era rowhouse which Hope called home, where they sat on the weathered stone stairs admiring the stars.  Their conversation had finally dwindled, with each silently recognizing that _the_ moment had arrived at last.  The high point of the dance they had been doing since Hope had asked to sit beside him ‘neath that silver maple back in Washington Square Park.  Through shared laughter over drinks and Pad Thai, through a stroll made leisurely because each hoped to keep the evening’s pleasantry from ending, and through quiet revelations as they’d felt each other out, the unspoken question lingered, waiting for its answer—would the chemistry that had grown between them since their meeting in the park, turn out to be true?

Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, thigh against thigh.  Stephen had rolled down his sleeves as the night air had cooled, while Hope shivered just a little despite her buttoned cardigan—providing him a handy excuse to slip an arm around her as he asked if she was cold.

“Yeah…a bit,” she admitted, allowing his small advance before resting her head against his shoulder.  “Thanks—this is…” Hope drew a deep breath, and let out a sigh, “…this is nice.”

“It sure is,” he agreed, pulling her a wee bit closer, smiling into the darkness at how she felt against him.  She was still trembling, and Stephen secretly hoped it was on account of him; a shiver of anticipation, perhaps, for what surely came next. 

Given the tremendous changes in his life, Stephen hadn’t had the pleasure of ‘what came next’ in a couple of years and was just thinking of how to begin—when Hope solved that question for him, raising her head to lay a soft, chaste kiss on his cheek.  She moved away enough to allow them to face one another. “Well hello,” he murmured, “And what was that for?”  His heart had begun to beat a little faster as he waited on her answer, the light from the streetlamp enough for him to read the bold encouragement in her eyes.

“That? Um…that…” she shrugged, slyly impertinent, “That’s for dinner, of course.  What else could it be for?”

Stephen was watching her mouth, the tempting curve of her bottom lip, the pale pink of her lip gloss which suited her perfectly, and that cheeky half smile that directly challenged him to taste her.  “Well I _could_ think of a few other things.”  He strove to calm the eager edge in his voice, “But sometimes, actions really do speak louder than words…”  He trailed off as he leaned into her and laid two fingers along her jawline, drawing her face closer.

“Thank goodness,” she replied softly, near enough now that he could feel the whisper of her breath against his lips.  “I was starting to think you might not be interested after all.”  How pretty she looked as her eyes fluttered shut, and how willingly she let him lead her into the kiss.

He tried to be soft to begin with--for both their sakes--so that as first kisses went, it was patient and gentle.  In truth, he was going far more patiently than his blood was urging him to go.  Her lips were slightly parted, providing a perfect fit with his own, and when he withdrew, she lingered her bottom lip against his, reluctant to let go.  “Wow,” she whispered, so that he _had_ to smile, even as he returned for more.

Cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand, Stephen held her steady, thoroughly kissing her this time, kissing her breathless.  When he broke from their heavenly, lengthy series of kisses, Hope drew a deep gulp of air; he saw that her upturned face was softly flushed from his attentions, her lips a little swollen from the insistence of his kisses.  He found her quiet, natural beauty all the more beguiling, seeing his effect upon her.  She opened her eyes, pools of deep blue that bid him continue.  “Don’t stop now,” she urged him, “This night seems made for kissing.”

He took her face in both hands, marveling at her gentle wisdom. “As do you, Hope,” he murmured, laying a kiss between her brows, and then on the tip of her nose, before leaning his forehead against hers.  Of all the magic he had learned since coming to Kamar-Taj, the magic of first kisses under starlight remained one of the most extraordinary of all.

“You really _are_ silver-tongued, aren’t you?”  Her voice was low, breathy, and irresistibly feminine.

“Hmmmm…” Stephen nuzzled his way across her cheek and down the side of her neck, growing distracted by the sweet scent of her skin.  “Not so much,” he murmured, placing a moist kiss beneath her ear, “I really just…”  He wondered if she could hear the smile in his voice, “I just call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

“Of course you do,” she purred, and stretched her neck enough to encourage him to spoil her throat with warm, tender kisses, “How could I expect anything less…”  Hope slid her hand beneath his collar to caress his neck; her palm was slightly cooler than his skin, her fingers possessed of a nimble familiarity as she threaded them through the hairline at the nape of his neck.

In reply, Stephen traced the shell of her ear with his fingertip—his reward to feel her shiver, knowing for certain this time that she trembled for _him_ —and then forged a path of heated kisses from her throat to her ear, to finally breathe her name against it.  Hope hummed in the back of her throat, a sound like dark, plush velvet, visceral enough to make him speculate about the sort of sounds she might give him at the height of pleasure.

She had cupped her other hand against his, where he held her face--and then began nestling her cheek against his palm, her breath warm as she tendered open-mouthed kisses against it; gently adoring his ruined hand, as if to prove her declaration that she found it beautiful.  It was nearly too exquisite for him to bear.  Stephen sighed hard at the pleasure of it, and the urge to taste her kiss again become too potent to deny.

Hope gave a little moan when his lips found hers once more, swiftly opening for him, and allowing him to tease the tip of his tongue along the inside of her bottom lip.  Stephen slid his hand around to cradle the back of her head while he deepened the kiss, a shudder of lust coursing through his veins as she accepted the full thrust of his tongue, tasting him as eagerly as he was savoring her.  Not even his wildest imaginings had let him think he’d end his day so deliciously connected, as a need long denied began to assert itself despite his better intentions.

The more fraught with yearning he became, Hope grew ever softer, yielding to him without hesitation.  The soft little sounds she made were intoxicating, confounding his usual reason; the play of her hands—one in his hair, the other tightly gripping his shirt—impelled him, like a promise of satisfactions to come.  The night sounds of the city around them had faded away, replaced with the hard beat of the blood in his brain, and the rushed gasps for air each caught between kisses.  Stephen was glad for the darkness that cocooned them, for the divine illusion it gave that even the occasional passerby could not disturb their little world. 

Made bold enough by the night and his growing need, he finally drifted one hand down to cup the curve of her breast, eliciting Hope’s sweetest moan yet.  Her lips grew slack while she arched into his touch, and she laid her cheek against his when he circled the pad of his thumb upon her stiffened nipple.  She breathed out hard; breathed his name while she feathered her lips from his cheek down the side of his neck.

Stephen leaned his head back a little, loving the feel of her slow, moist kisses and the warmth of her breath on his skin.  It felt like forever since he’d been treated so tenderly, and every nerve in his body seemed awake with the need for more.  “Hope…honey…” he groaned, lost in her softness, even the barest eloquence eluding him, “Do you think…ahhhhh…could we maybe…hmmm…maybe take this upstairs to your…your place?”

“Oh god,” she whispered against his skin, suspending her lips from his flesh before withdrawing enough to lay her cheek against his once more, “Oh, Stephen…I…um…I’m not…I’m not quite ready for that…”

He let his hands fall away from her; nodding, and feeling like an utter, ridiculous fool, he told her, “I…I understand…oh, shit…I’m sorry, Hope…I shouldn’t have even asked or…or…assumed you would want that…”

She moved to look him squarely in the eyes, a small, regretful smile gracing her pretty mouth, “Believe me, Stephen—I _would_ like that…honestly…very, _very_ much…”  Hope stroked the fingers of her right hand along his goatee and jawline. “Do you have any idea how charming you are? And smart…and…and too damn handsome for a woman in her right mind to resist?”  Stephen smirked a little, flattered to have her speak such compliments so plainly.  “And despite this little… _interlude_ …you’ve been a total gentleman.  I feel like I discovered a diamond in this…cracker jack box of a city.  Damn… _dammit_ ,” she cursed herself, and her nose crinkled so adorably with it that he had to smile despite feeling a fool, “I am _so_ tempted to say yes right now…but…well…I’m just not built that way…”

Stephen nodded again, looking down, embarrassment and disappointment still vying to be his chief emotion, despite her flattery, “I get it, Hope…I…I do.  I _truly_ do…”

“Really?” she asked, taking his hand in her free hand, and rushing her words a bit, in her urgency to be clear, “Because I need you to know that I don’t normally do this kind of thing. I am _not_ the sort of woman who picks up strange men in parks and spends the rest of the day with them…and on such brief acquaintance, lets them buy her dinner…and then invites them… _home_.” That she spoke the last as a clear euphemism gave him another cause to smile.  “So, I’m sorry if I gave you that impression…especially as we’ve been sitting here,” Hope rolled her eyes, and sounding sheepish, continued, “…so deliciously… _engaged_ …for a good while now.”

Stephen softened with relief, treasuring the look of regret on her face, and the clear notes of it in her voice.  “Yeah—I know. I do.  And I’m pretty sure I knew that about you from the get-go.”  Stephen leaned closer, mastering his own disappointment, needing to see her troubled expression relax back to its usual, lovely mien.  “Don’t blame a guy for trying?”

She grinned back, and squeezed his hand lightly, “Oh hell…I would’ve been disappointed if you hadn’t!”

* * *

And so he walked Hope up the last several steps to the door of her building, beginning to miss the warmth of her company already.  They exchanged numbers—with Stephen cautioning her that some days his schedule was intense enough that he might be out of touch, but promising if he missed her call, he would get back to her eventually.  She thanked him again for dinner and the time they’d spent together and promised patience in waiting for his call.  When she rose on her toes so she could reach his cheek for a farewell kiss, he accepted it with a little chuckle.

“I think we can mange a more proper kiss goodnight, though,” he speculated, noting the light of her eyes showed agreement.  He reached for her braid, gently tugging her closer, watching as she whet her lips in anticipation.  His palm tingled slightly, where her hair touched his skin—as did the center of his forehead.  Stephen couldn’t be sure at the time that the image that came to him was just a product of longing and regret, or a gift of the Sight, via his Third Eye.  But in that moment, he saw Hope with her thick, auburn hair unbound; saw it spill in lush waves across her bare, freckled shoulders—and he knew in that instant that she had loosed it from its braid for him.

She looked at him quizzically, perhaps wondering at his pleased smile, and then she twined both arms around his neck, while he pulled her into a firm embrace, committing to memory the easy fit of her curves against his body.  This was the proper kiss goodnight, the kiss meant to see them both into a night’s dreams of what awaited them when patience and better timing had their way at last.  As if in punctuation, Hope whispered in his ear, “Just so you know, Stephen--if any man I’ve met in the last ten years had the… _magic_ … to make me break my rules, it _absolutely_ would’ve have been you.”  She batted her eyes at him one last time, and then slipped through the door, and out of his sight.

Stephen stood a few moments more, smiling despite the ache which Hope had awoken for a deeper physical connection, and that had now settled in his bones.  _I get that, too_ , he thought, _I swear I do, Hope.  And when_ …if… _if it_ _happens, I already know you’re worth waiting for._

He shouldered his knapsack, and took the stairs rapidly, looking back just once when he landed on the sidewalk, then walked down the street to the nearest alley.  No need for a taxi; he drew his sling ring from the depths of his left pocket, and used it to portal back home to the Sanctum, wondering as he went how long it might be until he could gaze deeply into Hope’s fetching blue eyes and number the sweet freckles that dappled the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

* * *

Stephen had forced himself to wait until after noon on Saturday to give Hope a call, not wanting to appear _too_ eager.  To his great surprise, he felt as nervous as he had as a boy of fifteen, asking his high school crush out for the first time.  And he felt a little crestfallen when her phone immediately reverted to voice mail, though he tried his best to sound as cool and urbane in his brief message, as she had described him the night before.

She returned his call a couple hours later, and had to leave a voicemail as well, for duty called and he’d been needed to help resolve a minor crisis in Kamar-Taj.  He was unable to return to Bleecker Street until after 11pm, which he felt was rather late to call her back.  He listened to her message three times in all, enchanted by her chipper tone and by her apology for missing the chance to talk to him, as she had been conducting classes most of the afternoon at a rec center one East 54th, explaining that she held a firm policy as a teacher to put her cell away during classes.  “But I hope to hear from you again soon, Mr. Remarkable,” she’d giggled, before hanging up, “And until then, know that I’m still smiling from our adventures yesterday!”

He missed her again late Sunday morning, growing a bit frustrated that they were left to play phone tag, but within the hour he’d had to assume the full mantle of Master of the Mystic Arts and join several others in the Basque countryside of Spain, to beat back an incursion fire-breathing Wormes; he’d ended up staying there two days longer as the Sorcerers searched for and finally sealed their point of entry into Earth’s dimension.  Stephen returned from that foray slightly singed, and in need of a hot shower and a cool beer or two.

He found a large manila envelope waiting on the desk in the study he had commandeered as his own.  It was marked in one corner ‘Please Do NOT Bend’, addressed simply ‘Stephen Strange’, and had to have been hand delivered, for there was no stamp or postmark—and in place of a return address was the inked image of a small but vibrantly blue butterfly, leaving him without a doubt whom had left it for him.  Intrigued, Stephen carefully slit beneath the sealed flap and pulled out two pieces of 11 x 14 cardstock that had a piece of sketch paper sandwiched between them.  He thought that it must be the portrait Hope had done of him, as that sat on the grass in Washington Square Park, and he smiled broadly despite his exhaustion, recalling the pleasant way they had whiled away the day, of their evening stroll to Hope’s place in Brooklyn, of the starlight kisses they had shared—and most especially of how reverently she had held his hand against her cheek, gingerly kissing his scarred flesh, and of the image that had flashed through his mind of her with her hair undone, looking very like she was ripe for his taking.  Stephen let out a slow breath, and with hands that tremored from his old injury, removed the sketch from its protective cover.

“ _Whoa_ ,” was all he managed, thunderstruck by a new image which Hope has so faithfully rendered.  The paper itself was similar to that in her sketch pad, but evento his untrained eye, of higher quality.  She had titled the piece  _The Nature of Beauty_ \--and had depicted a beauty he had honestly not believed was there.  Her Artist’s eye was truly keen, for she had captured his every minutia from memory alone.  The back of his left hand was displayed as though on its side, with his right hand draped across that wrist.  She had added both his bracelets (fashioned of bead and leather, gifted to him by the elders of an Indi village after he had vanquished a Blight Demon that had laid waste to nearly half their fields) and his watch; he recalled her curiosity at him wearing a broken timepiece, and how she had only nodded in understanding when he replied it held sentimental value beyond any question of time, respecting his privacy enough not to press for more.

Hope had thoroughly filled in the details, even down to the cracks on the watch face. His fingers were relaxed, though his right index finger was held just slightly bent—and upon it sat the Blue Morpho, it’s wings and body so meticulously portrayed that Stephen could almost see it flutter slightly.  She had drawn the piece in blacks and greys, with the subtlest hints of color at the his beaded bracelet and his watchband--though the butterfly held the echo of it’s true color, in sky blue chalk (so like the color of the sky that afternoon) which she had treated with a some kind of fixative to keep it from smudging.  He found the sketch reminiscent of DaVinci’s detailed, realistic style, in his multitude of studies of the human form—the perfection of the human form which he had ever worshipped. Lastly, Hope had placed the date in the lower, righthand corner, and her initials bordered on the sketch itself.

But his favorite detail—one he never would have guessed he would find pleasing—was her depiction of the scars upon his hands. Hope had not stinted in depicting the weals that marked them, but she had given them an unexpected softness that left him with a soft appreciation in the center of his chest.  Stephen decided on the spot that he would have it framed right away, to hang above the small desk in his quarters; it would be a gentle reminder of that old axiom ‘ _beauty is in the eye of the beholder’_ —and of an extraordinary soul whom fate had somehow sent in his direction on a sunny, spring afternoon.

Hope had taped a note loosely on the reverse of the sketch, which he removed with care. It read:

_Dear Stephen,_

_I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I have enjoyed creating it.  This is the original, of course—but I have kept a scan of it for my portfolio.  At the least, perhaps it will remind you that beauty is well beyond skin deep, and others often see what we think of as our flaws in a kinder light than we see ourselves._

_You may not know this, but in many cultures blue butterflies symbolize joy, beauty, and good fortune—most appropriate when I think how lucky it was that our paths came to cross that day.  Thank you for allowing me the privilege of trying my best to capture the unique beauty of your hands…scars and all._

_Sincerely,_

_Hope_

_PS   I promised patience, and I swear I am a woman of my word.  But please do keep trying, Stephen—as I’m certain that our paths are meant to cross again. xx  _

 Energized by her astonishing gift, Stephen didn’t hesitate.  He grabbed his cell from the shelf where it sat charging, sending a silent request unto the universe ‘ _please—let her pick up in person this time_ ’.  And perhaps because his prayer was fervent—perhaps too, because he’d earned himself some good karma—Hope picked up on the third ring.  “Stephen,” she exclaimed brightly, “I just _knew_ it would be you this time!”

“I just got back in town, I’m looking at your gorgeous sketch, and I’m thinking we _have_ to get together this afternoon.”  _Before something calls me_ _away again_. “You game?”

“Absolutely,” she averred, “And what do you have in mind?”  The note of mischief in her voice caused his pulse to speed its pace.

“There’s this great little pub on East 4th Street, _The Four-Faced Liar_.  Some of the best burgers in the city…”

“Got it…”  She sounded as eager as he felt, “Hey, that’s about halfway between our places.”

“Yup.”  Stephen was already planning his route—well, where he could discretely portal to, giving him adequate time to shower and get dressed first, “Let’s say an hour, I’ll meet you there?”

“It’s a date, then?

“You bet’cha it’s a date,” he promised, “And Hope?”

“Yes, Stephen?”  He could swear he felt her smile across the miles between them.

“Wear some comfy shoes, okay?  There’s no telling what adventures we might get up to today.”

The sigh she gave at that sounded as full of possibilities as his heart was hoping for.  Of course, only time would tell—and as a master of time (in his unique way) he knew that time, in this case, was surely on his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things- I know I've played a little fast and loose with New York City streets, especially when it came to High Line Park and it's proximity to the Brooklyn Bridge. If you're a New Yorker, please forgive. All I can say is I had to in order to suit the tale I've told.
> 
> Also, I'm already toying with a sequel to this little story, one that will have some angst, falling post-Infinity War, in an AU where Stephen Strange might not have been one of the Dusted when Thanos snapped his fingers. It may be some time until I get to it, but when I do...well, count on Hope and Stephen finding themselves even closer than they've gotten in this story!


End file.
